Doe
by ohprongs
Summary: "The manner of giving is worth more than the gift." - Pierre Corneille. L/J three-shot
1. my doe

**A/N: **_(Edit) _It was midnight, and I had this massive urge to write something down-right dirty, and that was based around Christmas and giving gifts and all that jazz and then I was like, "Well, I already have a fic about a present, received," – I literally started talking to myself – and decided to extend this to a three-shot.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my overactive emotions. Chapter titles from _Only If For A Night_ by Florence + the Machine. Also the image is not mine, I found it on fanpop.

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><p><em>January 30th, 1977<em>

.

You approach her slowly, quietly. She laughs loudly with her friends and you say her name softly. She turns, looks at you, emerald meeting hazel, and – in all honesty – you're shocked to see the glow of happiness doesn't leave her eyes as they rest on you.

"Yeah?"

The two of you have been getting along better ever since Flitwick paired you in Charms for the Michaelmas term where you had to do work outside of class and she found that you actually weren't that bad, despite a couple of false starts. You'd apologised for the OWL incident, and she had too, (unnecessarily in your opinion) and she'd even admitted in her round-a-bout way that she'd missed you over the holidays when she'd gone home for Christmas.

And so because you're friends, and friends give each other things, you hand her the present, a modest box containing an outrageous present that you really probably shouldn't have got her, it was a definite mistake, and now she's grinning up at you, questioning, and tearing off the paper with a smile, biting her lip, and you _really_ shouldn't have got it for her and you should take it back and fucking hell, she's opening the box and bloody Merlin -

The smile disappears.

You're not entirely sure how she looks now.

But… it's not a bad look. In fact, you'd say it's a happy look.

A very happy look.

"Thank you," she breathes. "Potter, it's beautiful!" Despite your insistence, you're still Potter, but you know that the day you become James will be worth the wait. It's lifted from the box, the charm fingered, rested in her palm. She giggles. "It's perfect!"

She undoes the clasp and hands you the two ends. "Put it on!" she insists, face alight with joy.

"What, on me?" you ask, smirking.

"No, on me, idiot," she giggles, turning away and twisting her hair up off her nape. You resist the urge to run your hands over the creamy skin, instead settling for resting your fingers gently on her neck as you tremble to do up the necklace.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"A doe - it's my Patronus. How did you know?"

Your heart soars and you feel a grin rising to your face. You try and fail to arrange your features into a look of unconvincing nonchalance.

"Lucky guess, I suppose," you shrug. She gives you an odd look, trying to decipher your expression, but gives up and decides on a hug instead. It's when she has her arms around your neck, her lips brushing your skin for the smallest moment that you realise.

You'll never get over Lily Evans, no matter how hard you try.

And you're really not sure that you want to.

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><p>Reviews are having all four complete series of <em>Merlin <em>on DVD so you can look at Bradley James' beautiful face any time you so wish to do.


	2. my dear

**A/N:** Smut really isn't my forte, which is why, in all honesty, this isn't full of lemony goodness. It's just the dirty mind of a teenage James Potter obsessive gone mad, but don't read it if you really dislike intimacy. For the very reason that I can't even write the word _cock_ without giggling, it's not in great detail. More a following them into the bedroom and retreating after foreplay jobbie.

Out of shear worry, I feel I must say that there's the tiniest mention of, ahem, bondage.

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><p><em>December 24th, 1978<em>  
>.<p>

The lights on the tree twinkle at you, the flickering bulbs illuminating her pale skin. You'd thought the tinsel was garish, over the top, but she'd insisted on it - a remnant of her Muggle Christmas tradition, in contrast to the tasteful candles-and-ornaments tree you remember from childhood.

"What do you want to do about presents?"

You're sprawled on the sofa, her head leaning comfortably on your shoulder, your arm wrapped around her.

"Are yours appropriate for me to open in front of my family?" she asks shrewdly, amused.

"Yes," you protest indignantly. You're off to her Mum's tomorrow after breakfast, and you want to continue the good impression the Evans' family got of you at Petunia's wedding.

"Okay, let's do them tomorrow then," she reasons. There's a moment's pause. "But there's one I'd like to give you now, if that's alright. Kind of personal."

You shrug.

"It's upstairs, though."

You repeat the action and allow her to pull you gleefully up to your bedroom, excitement racing through your veins as she locks the door, even though you're alone in the house (a fact you've both exploited many times).

"Close your eyes."

Dutifully you snap your eyes shut, though you can't help complaining when you hear her movements.

"Okay."

You open your eyes, blinking a couple of times, and your mouth falls open - you then realise that you've turned into a drooling idiot and promptly close it; already you can feel yourself hardening. She's standing before you in a dark green corset, wearing nothing else apart from a black lace garter and a wicked grin.

"I thought, seeing as it's Christmas, you might want to unwrap something. Me."

Her teeth graze her bottom lip and this simple action is all it takes to push you over the edge. You reach forward, tugging her towards you, your hands barely knowing where to touch first, your lips working furiously against hers. You slip your tongue inside her mouth, fingers scrambling for purchase on her _soft_ _soft soft_ skin as you undo the lingerie; she grips your hair and trails butterfly kisses along your jawline, down your neck and across your collarbone. You touch and taste each other blindly, madly, and she pulls you down onto the bed with her.

Amidst your frantic movements, you're both divested of clothes, and she breaks the kiss only to reach for her wand (lying on the bedside table) and conjure silky ribbons like the ones that had previously held her corset together. She ties one around each of your wrists, and then to the headboard.

"I also thought," she murmurs as she works, "that I might wrap_ you_ up, you know, to spoil myself. It is that time of year, after all."

"You're utterly depraved," you get out, groaning as her fingers trail down your body.

"It's a disgrace, really, isn't it?" she agrees. "What are you going to do about it?"

Your reply isn't so much a coherent sentence as an altogether more communicative gesture, and after that there is little need for words.

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><p>Happy July! Reviews are Eoin Macken referring viewers to Colin Morgan when asked about the homo-eroticism in <em>Merlin<em> (sensing a theme?)


	3. my darling

**A/N:** Hurrah! Part three. Enjoy the references to _From The Infinitive, 'To Marmalade'_.

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><p><em>March 27th, 1980<em>  
>.<p>

When you wake the room is warm but the bed cold; her presence by your side is missing. Worry starts to flood your veins, but then you hear a crash and a rather loud, "Fuck!" from downstairs and you know that it's not Death Eaters at your door because she would be doing more than swearing at them and you definitely wouldn't be allowed to lounge in bed.

You roll over and pick up your glasses, the edges of your vision sharpening as you slip them on. After plumping up the pillows and slumping on them – you attempted artful, casual relaxing but that's more what Sirius is for; you're a slumping kind of bloke – you wait for her to join you in the bedroom.

Her footsteps echo on the wooden stairs just outside the room and the door opens. She wanders in, eyes twinkling, levitating a tray in front of her with her wand in one hand and a bundle of presents in the other arm.

The glimpse you catch of her out of the corner of your eye prompts a sudden realisation.

She's yours.

Without question.

She's got your old Quidditch shirt on over a pair of your boxers and her hair's tugged back in a ponytail so you can see the necklace you got her all those years ago glinting at her neck. She sets the tray down with her wand and dumps the presents at the foot of the bed like your Mum used to do (it was probably the House-Elves though, wasn't it?) when you were a kid. She finds your _Prongs_ mug that Sirius bought you jokingly one year and brings it over to you, smiling, and she carries your baby in her stomach.

She's yours.

You can't say why it hits you so strongly at this moment, but it does, and a second realisation follows: you're hers.

She owns you, and knows it, and you give yourself gladly to her, for her, with her. You'd do anything to make her feel happy and safe and loved.

She pokes her tongue out at you as she sits down.

"Alright, Potter?"

You nod, smirking, and pull her closer: she's not expecting it and topples towards you, knocking into the carefully laden tray. Coffee and toast and marmalade are sent flying and suddenly the duvet in front of both of you is covered in crumbs and splashes of hot liquid.

You turn to her sheepishly, but one look at your face sends her into raucous giggles and soon you're laughing along with her.

"James Potter!" she reprimands. "You're a complete idiot sometimes."

She says it with a grin, though, and even though you know she's not really angry, you give her your _it's my birthday_ look (which, incidentally, is also your _let's shag_ look) and she relents, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek.

"But you're my idiot," she says softly, leaning into you.

You kiss her then, a long kiss which makes her pull away after a few moments, breathless and flushed, and as her fingers wind into your hair, as yours splay out on her belly and feel the thrum of life that the two of you created, a third realisation hits you.

You're each other's.

Without question.

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><p>Reviews are the <em>Merlin<em> cast at Comic Con 2012.


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